traditions

There's something to be said about the warm squishy feelings traditions can provide.  

For instance, on every January 11th at 11:11am, the precise minute I was born, my mom and I always talk to each other.  When I used to live at home, my mom would always holler across the house, "ERICA!  It's 11:11am!" and now that I'm away, a phone call suffices if the date happens to fall on a weekday.  And every year she tells the story about how it snowed 3 feet that day in Connecticut, and how she had to tell the doctor, "we'll be driving to the hospital as soon as my husband shovels out the driveway!!"  I grin just imagining what was running through his head- first kid ever and the rest of its life depended on how fast he shoveled snow.  Awesome.

Then there are the times when my dad would go on business trips, and I guess I owe my sweet tooth to him, because he would always bring back half a stick of starburst in the outermost pocket of his carry-on and give it to me when he unpacked.  He'd offer it to me like it was no big deal at all, like he'd bought the pack for himself but didn't have time to eat it all on the plane, but he did it every time.  I think I told him about this years later when we happened to be standing in line for the register, and he immediately offered to buy me some.  He's cute like that, but I'd always rather have half a stick of leftover starburst from him than a brand new pack.  Of course, my mom still thinks it rots your teeth; this coming from someone who insists eating ice cream is a necessity because it's her main source of calcium!